


Sun, Shadow, and Storm

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Scent Kink, Sweat, Terrible Metaphors, Thunder and Lightning, and i don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 23:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15083918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: They’d only just arrived at what appeared to be the cheapest caravan park in Dorset, and already John Watson hated the caravan, the town, summer, and Sherlock Holmes. For a pound he’d return to London where he could at least have shut out the sun, serial arsonists or no.And then the storm began.





	Sun, Shadow, and Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts), [ancientreader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/gifts).



> Written for Come at Once 2018. I had to tap out of my first prompt, "a change in the weather" and my second prompt was "what we do in the shadows". I hope I've managed to marry the two. 
> 
> Unbetaed despite a kind offer from hiddenlacuna because I'm traveling and will have connectivity issues between now and the posting deadline. Please forgive any word repetition.

 

_Serial arsonist in Poole. 5 victims, another suspected. Interested?_

**Lestrade. Arson? Really? SH**

_We haven’t been able to identify the chemicals. Thought you could lend a hand._

**Dryer sheets, probably. SH**

_He leaves no DNA evidence & doesn’t follow a discernable MO. Poole police stumped._

**That’s only a seven at best. And John hates caravans. SH**

_You can go undercover_ and _I’ll tell Anderson he’s a git._

**Fine. SH**

_Give John my apologies._

**For the caravans? SH**

_Among other things._

 

They’d only just arrived at what appeared to be the cheapest caravan park in Dorset, and already John Watson hated the caravan, the town, summer, and Sherlock Holmes. For a pound he’d return to London where he could at least have shut out the sun, serial arsonists or no.

 

“Fucking NSY,” John muttered, pushing his damp hair out of his face for the hundredth time. “Couldn’t they have sprung for the deluxe accommodations?” The caravan window slammed shut on his hands for the fourth time.

“Oi,” Sherlock said. “My bruv Lestrade knows that the size ain’t much diffrent. Save some dosh, right, gives us more money for beer.” He reached over and flipped a lever. The window stayed open.

“Sherlock. We are in the caravan. Alone.” Honestly, he hated Sherlock Holmes the most.

“Got to keep my hand in, don’t I?”

John glared.

“I don’t think you do. Your accent is terrible anyway.”

“It ain’t!”

“I will say this: it’s better than your clothes.”

“This vest is the perfect disguise.”

“You look like a petty criminal.”

“That is the point.” Sherlock stood up and twirled around. A black string vest clung to his lean chest, and snug denim shorts stopped just shy of his arse.

“Ugh.” John said, looking away. “What now?”

 

Five hours later, he was wishing he’d never asked. They had taken a long, roundabout walk through town, covering what had seemed like every low-rent area of Poole. Now, they were sitting on a park bench, in the still-breathless evening, staring across the street at the locked doors of a club. A gay club. Now the shorts made sense.

“You think he’ll be here?” A homophobic arsonist. Delightful.

“I’m well sure, yeah.”

“And when would that be?” John shook his empty lemonade bottle (“You can’t have water; it’s out of character”) and ran his tongue over his teeth. They were furry from the sugar, and he was parched.

“What’s wrong wiv you, bruv?”

“This is. Chasing criminals is one thing; prolonged surveillance in the heat is another. I had plenty of that in the army.”

Sherlock just grinned. “You can have cold beer inside.” he said.

“Great.” John said, and stared up at the huge, black clouds mounded up in the east. “Just in time for rain.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

The club opened at nine; John and Sherlock were among the first admitted, jostling in the crowd of beautifully groomed men. The minute they were inside, John made his way to the bar, ordering two bottles of beer. The relief of even taking them into his hands was tremendous; it felt like the first gasp of moisture he’d had in years. The first one disappeared in moments and he took three huge gulps of the second before feeling as though he were human again.

 

Then, he looked around. Sherlock was clearly visible—in a spotlight, in fact, leaning against a wall and looking casually gorgeous. John’s heart leaped, but he clamped it down and positioned himself diagonally from Sherlock, so they could see almost the whole bar.

 

_Small_ , Sherlock had said, _and red-headed_. Their arsonist had a complex, it seemed. He scanned the crowd, letting song after song wash over him.

 

“Can I get you another?” Someone jostled against him, his Australian accent drawing John’s attention. He turned to see a husky blond man in his thirties smiling at him.

“Thanks, mate, but I’m full up,” he said, gesturing to his nearly full beer. The Australian shrugged.

“Can I get you anything else?” he said, winking. His mouth was full and lush.

It had been so long since he had touched anyone. For a mad moment he was tempted. He glanced over at Sherlock…but Sherlock wasn’t there.

 

Damn it. The toilets.

“I wish I could,” he said, and ran.

 

By the time he got there, it was all over. Sherlock had the arsonist on the ground—he wasn’t short, John was pleased to notice—and the police were on their way. There was a pile of shredded newspapers and paraffin in the corner.

 

“Don’t let me interrupt your love connection,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure you’ll have fun down under.”

“Maybe I will,” said John, and stalked out. He ordered another beer and leaned on the bar, staring blankly into the heaving crowd.

Damn Sherlock! He’d looked away for a moment, had been tempted for a moment, and missed something. God, he needed to get his end away.

 

Sherlock materialized beside him a few minutes later, disheveled.

“I’ll finish this,” John said, “then we can go.”

“No.” Sherlock said. “Let’s dance.” His face shone with sweat and his curls were disheveled.

“Go ahead.” John didn’t want to go out there in case he never came back.

“Come with me,” Sherlock said, and something in his face overcame John’s reluctance. _I’m fucked,_ he thought. _This is a terrible idea._

 

The song was one that was unfamiliar, but the beat took them both over and they began to move. Out of sync, at first, but as a more popular song brought more bodies to the floor and pressed them together, their rhythm melded and it was as though they were one body.

 

John glanced up and wished he hadn’t. Sherlock’s face was soft, in a way John had rarely seen, and was all the more beautiful because of it.

 

Not only that, but  as he brought his face back down, he could tell that Sherlock smelled. Not the expensive smell of cologne, like the men in the line, but sharp and primal—sweat and salt. Something strained in John’s belly.  He drew a shaky breath.

 

“We have to go.”  He began to pull away. This was too much; he was already half hard and getting harder.

“One more song,” Sherlock said, catching his arm and pulling him in. John was caught off-balance and bumped against Sherlock’s chest. Another whiff of Sherlock’s hot body and the feel of his damp skin under the string vest was too much for him. He yanked his arm away. He wasn’t going to do this.

“Let me go.”

“If you want me to, I will.”

“You don’t want this. You never have.” “But if I did?”

Four words, but they opened up a dizzying array of possibilities.

“Here and now?”

“Nobody can see us, John,” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble in his ear.

John turned his body and grabbed Sherlock’s hips, pulling their bodies together. There was a hard ridge in those damn shorts, and he felt reassured. He ran his hand up Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down.

“Not here,” John said in his ear. “Not in the shadows.” He nipped Sherlock’s neck and let him go.

Sherlock groaned.  

“Then can we leave?” he asked.

“We are leaving right now.” John said. Taking Sherlock’s hand—it was enormous, engulfing his own—he headed for the exit.

Outside, it was very dark. The slight breeze did little to dispel the still-oppressive heat. They walked briskly, still hand-in-hand, and said little. “There’s a storm coming,” Sherlock said.

“There certainly is,” John replied, and Sherlock snorted.

 

The rain began as they entered the caravan park; the breeze picked up for a moment and then huge, fat drops began to fall. John sighed in relief at the water soaking through his t-shirt. Sherlock turned his face upward and let the water hit him, then dropped John’s hand and began to spin. John let him for a moment, and then, unable to stay away, stepped into his space and stopped him. They were nose to nose, and the rain was pouring down.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock whispered, and John did, pulling Sherlock’s face down to his and claiming his salty, cool lips with an unslakable thirst. Sherlock’s hands gripped his back, and their bodies pressed together so closely no rain could come between them.

_God, it was marvelous_. So much better than he could have imagined, the feel and smell of Sherlock’s body.

 

When they stopped to breathe, John was shaking.

“Caravan. Now.” he said, and tugged Sherlock along.

“I could shower here,” Sherlock said, tilting his face up again.

“Don’t get completely clean,” John warned, and Sherlock spun back to him.

“Is that how it is?” he said, a wicked glint in his eye.

John faced up to him. Lightning crashed and illuminated them both for a split second.

“That’s how it is.”

 

The door of the caravan slammed behind them and they were in each other’s arms again. The only light came from a streetlamp on the main path and occasional flashes of lightning; rain blew in through the open window onto the front bed.

“There,” Sherlock pointed.. He sat, and beckoned to John, who lunged at him. Straddling Sherlock’s lap and bracing his hands just below Sherlock’s elbows, John pinned him down on the bench. He kissed his mouth, once, almost perfunctorily before kissing his way along the delicate skin of Sherlock’s biceps to the light, sparse hair in Sherlock’s armpits. He buried his nose there, inhaling the scent of sharp sweat; sensation throbbed in his cock. He bit, and Sherlock cried out, softly.

“Like that?” John growled, grinding their cocks together.

“Yes,” Sherlock arched his back. John did it again, trailing bites down Sherlock’s sensitive ribs on both sides, and back up to the other armpit. He was drowning in Sherlock’s scent, almost on the verge of coming, when he kissed Sherlock again in a haze of pheromones.

“I want you to mark me,” Sherlock whispered, against his lips. “Let me feel you.” John sat up and took off his own shirt first. He reached up and stretched, letting his own heartbeat slow a little, moving so slowly that Sherlock wriggled with impatience.

“No rush,” he said, as lightning illuminated the caravan again. “Shall I turn on the light?”

“Bugger the light,” Sherlock reached up for his wrists and captured them easily. He pulled John back down against him.

“Not so fast, Sherlock.” John broke the grip and sat back up. “There are some things to take care of first.”

With great satisfaction, he grasped the v-neck of the string vest and ripped. Sherlock’s breath hitched as the garment tore from one side to the other, and his hips bucked up against John’s.

“Better,” John said, and bent over to nip and suck Sherlock’s neck until a huge purple mark appeared on his long throat. Sherlock thrashed beneath him, panting.

“Please,” Sherlock begged, “I’m…”

They were wet now, soaking—the rain that had started earlier was pounding through the windows, and mingling with the sweat on their bodies. John stood, pushing Sherlock’s shaking hands away from his own flies.

“I’ll do that,” he said, and did, marveling at the beauty of Sherlock’s cock. Then John shed his own shorts and pants and straddled Sherlock again, hissing at the pleasure of their bare skin. He slid down Sherlock’s body and buried his nose at the join of his thigh and torso, inhaling the hot, masculine scent.

“Christ, John,” Sherlock whined, “That’s not where your mouth should be.” “Don’t tell me what to do,” John said, and bit Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s cock jumped, and John did it again, feeling an answering pulse in his own.  Then he bit the other side, continuing until Sherlock was trembling.

He didn’t touch Sherlock’s cock with his mouth even then, but slid up Sherlock’s body to kiss him, first hard, then gently, taking the time to explore each part of his mouth, to nip and taste until Sherlock had entered a pliant, sex-drugged state.

Then, he stood. He got up, his own legs weak with desire, and closed the caravan’s curtains. He turned on the light.

“I want to really see you,” he said, and Sherlock nodded.

Kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, John sucked Sherlock as gently as he could, barely more than an open-mouthed caress. He licked his cock thoroughly, until Sherlock’s hips were rocking and his bollocks had drawn up tight. Then, John straddled him for the last time. He took their two cocks in his hand and stroked them together, rocking his own hips in time with Sherlock’s until first he spilled over, then Sherlock.

 

The light in the caravan was weak, but the view was wonderful. Sherlock lay on the bed, a slick, shaking mess. His mouth was pink and plump, and his eyes were fixed on John.

“Thank you,” he said, softly.

“It’s about fucking time,” John replied, leaning to kiss him once more. Sherlock pulled him down until their bodies were wedged together, surrounded by the scents of sweat and come and fresh rain.

 

 

 


End file.
